


Of Gryffindors and Rainy Sundays

by rainybookshopspoetry



Series: Two Quidditch Captains Walk Into a Bar [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Developing Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Morning After, Some Really Gratuitous Eye Sex, hangovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:20:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22298461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainybookshopspoetry/pseuds/rainybookshopspoetry
Summary: It’s a typical rainy, dismal Sunday in April when Marcus Flint wakes up with a truly wicked hangover and Oliver Wood in his bed.
Relationships: Marcus Flint/Oliver Wood
Series: Two Quidditch Captains Walk Into a Bar [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1391485
Comments: 32
Kudos: 289





	Of Gryffindors and Rainy Sundays

It’s a typical rainy, dismal Sunday in April when Marcus Flint wakes up with a truly wicked hangover and Oliver Wood in his bed.

Of course, at first all he’s aware of is the horrible pounding at his temples and the queasy feeling in his gut and the way his veins sort of feel like sandpaper. But as he blinks his way into reluctant wakefulness, he can feel soft sheets against his - entirely - bare skin and the weight of a strong, freckled arm thrown across his chest, and, if he squints, he thinks he can make out a trail of clothing leading from the door to the foot of the bed. He can also smell the faint hint of someone else’s cologne in the air, an appealing, slightly spicy scent that seems vaguely familiar somehow, and beyond that, there are soft little snores drifting up from somewhere on his right. Marcus scowls, feeling his already impressively bad mood sour further. He fucking _hates_ snoring.

He doesn’t think he actually had that much to drink last night – although it’s clear from the vicious pounding in his head that he wasn’t remotely sober – but the combination of a hangover and his general grogginess in the mornings tends to leave him horrifically disoriented when he wakes up after drinking. So he’s sure the pieces of last night will come back to him after a shower and some headache potion and a very strong cup of tea, but for now all he can remember is going to the pub with Terence and Adrian. He thinks Adrian might have been called back to work, and given his level of nausea he’s pretty sure there must have been shots, and for some reason he thinks he can remember a Puddlemere Chant? And…

Holy shit.

He’s pretty sure he can remember sitting and having drinks with the _entire Puddlemere team_ last night, doing Quidditch-themed shots and earnestly telling Viktor Krum that he's a big fan and chatting amicably for _hours_ with Oliver fucking Wood. The rest of the night is as hazy as ever, but Marcus feels the first tendrils of anxiety unfurl in his stomach, because going from drinking with other players to waking up with a man in his bed does not bode well at all for someone who has always kept work and pleasure separate.

So as much as he desperately wants to go back to sleep for the next six hours or so, he also really wants to figure out what the fuck happened, not to mention get some water and dislodge whatever idiotic stranger has had the audacity to snuggle him in his sleep. He’s reaching up to unceremoniously remove the admittedly well-muscled arm from his chest when he sees something that makes his stomach clench with an uncharacteristic sense of panic.

The man is wearing a ring. Not a wedding ring - which Marcus would never have been stupid enough to let happen, because there is _nothing_ less discreet than a wronged, vengeful wife - but something much, much worse. There, on the middle finger of the man’s right hand, sits a large Hogwarts signet ring. For _Gryffindor_.

Jesus Christ. Marcus briefly wonders if he can trust his absolutely rubbish Charm work enough to try Obliviating himself, but unless he wants to risk ending up roommates with Lockhart in the Janus Thickey Ward, he thinks he’s shit out of luck.

Because the problem is, while he’s seen the gaudy, stupid class rings on several Hogwarts grads over the years, there’s one person in particular he remembers wearing this one. Specifically on the middle finger of his right hand, for luck in each Quidditch match.

He really, really doesn’t want to roll over and find out if he was just as colossally stupid last night as he suspects, but he also doesn’t want to spend any longer silently panicking in his bed in the arms of a Gryffindor. So he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for a moment, and shifts to the right.

And right there, sprawled inelegantly across most of his mattress, handsome face shoved unceremoniously into one of his admittedly expensive pillows, is a blissful-looking Oliver Wood. Even in the grey light filtering through his curtains, Marcus can make out Quidditch-toned muscles and a jagged-looking scar on one shoulder and, he notes with a terrifying mix of horror and arousal, a rather large bite mark on the side of Wood's neck. Marcus is still staring - and is absolutely _not_ frozen with a sort of panicked indecision that would be mortifying in any other circumstance - when Wood cracks open one brown eye and regards Marcus sleepily for a moment.

“Morning,” Wood yawns, closing his eye again and settling deeper into the pillow with a contented little sigh.

Marcus stares blankly back, wondering absurdly if he’s finally taken too many Bludgers to the head and needs that spot in the Janus Thickey ward after all.

“Wood,” Marcus grits out, shoving him roughly in the shoulder. “Wake the fuck up.”

Wood groans slightly, attempting to burrow deeper into the mattress, and Marcus watches helplessly for a moment, refusing to acknowledge the feeling that blooms in his chest at how comfortable Wood looks wrapped up in his sheets. Shaking himself, Marcus pulls himself to a seated position, Accios his wand from somewhere in the haphazard pile of clothes on the floor and, with a whispered _Aguamenti_ he manages on the second try, fills the cup on his bedside table with water. He gulps it down hungrily while simultaneously kicking Wood in the shin until Wood pulls his face out of the pillow with a muffled groan and fixes Marcus with a glare that would probably be impressive if he weren't still half-asleep.

Marcus resolutely avoids Wood's eyes as he refills the glass again and takes another generous swig before, in an unusual moment of generosity, offering the rest to Wood, who hastily pulls himself up to lean against the pillows next to Marcus, close enough that their arms are almost brushing. Wood takes the water gratefully, downing the contents in about 3 seconds flat before setting the empty glass on top of the stack of Quidditch magazines on the bedside table. Marcus is painfully aware of the scant inches between them and that neither of them are wearing anything beneath the sheets and that Wood has definitely noticed that the cover of the topmost Quidditch magazine features a giant glossy photo of Puddlemere. 

A profoundly uncomfortable silence falls. 

“Do you…do you not remember?” Wood finally asks, biting his lip in concern. His voice is rough with sleep, accent more pronounced than normal, and Marcus resolves not to find it cute.

And the thing is, while the night’s a little hazy in places and he’s still not exactly sure how they made it back to his flat, Marcus definitely remembers now. In vivid, technicolour, earth-shattering clarity.

He remembers Wood shoving him up against the wall outside the pub and kissing him with an intensity that was almost dizzying, and tearing off Marcus's clothes so he could trail his lips over every exposed piece of skin, and looking down at him with a sort of breathless awe Marcus wasn't sure he deserved. He remembers letting himself get swept up in what was probably years' worth of tension, in a fierce rivalry that maybe wasn't entirely about Quidditch, and in how Wood's always been able to make him a little more reckless than he probably should be. 

“No, I remember,” Marcus mutters, looking over at Wood before he thinks better of it. 

Except now Wood looks dismayed, twisting his hands anxiously in his lap.

“I didn’t mean to…oh god. I didn’t mean to – to take _advantage_ of you, or anything, I _swear_."

“Wood,” Marcus starts, but Wood doesn't seem to hear him.

"I thought - last night, you seemed so sure," Wood continues, running a hand through his already dishevelled hair and looking agitated, "but, if you weren’t, and I … _shit_ , I’m so sorry...”

“I did want this, okay?" Marcus cuts in, staring at the vivid bite mark on Wood's neck and trying not to shudder at the memory. “But - that’s it, alright?" he adds hurriedly when Wood opens his mouth to respond. "I don’t get involved with Quidditch players,” Marcus tells him with finality.

Wood blinks, looking a little wrong-footed. Marcus resolutely doesn't notice the way Wood's nose scrunches up attractively when he frowns. 

"So, er, you don't date them - Quidditch players I mean - or...?" Wood asks, shifting just a little closer and looking at him earnestly.

This close, Marcus can see every freckle spanning across Wood's cheeks and how one of his eyes is a little more green than the other and all he wants to do is kiss Wood on his stupidly soft-looking mouth and suddenly he can’t stand it anymore. 

“Look, can you just – you need to leave, now,” Marcus tells Wood, nudging him none-too-gently with his foot and nodding decisively at the door. 

Marcus catches the confused frown on Wood's face out of the corner of his eye before he drops his gaze resolutely to his lap, fiddling mindlessly with the sheet pooled around him for one long, tense moment, until he hears Wood mumble "right, then" in a tone he can't decipher. In the next instant, Marcus feels the bed shift next to him as Wood heaves the covers off of himself and rolls gracefully to his feet, carelessly slipping on a pair of pants and casting around for the rest of his clothes.

Marcus keeps his eyes fixed on his lap, trying desperately to feign nonchalance while - he's well aware - a half-dressed Oliver Wood makes his way around Marcus's room, sorting through the mess they left in the hazy desire of last night. Marcus is pretty sure he'll start shredding the sheet if he tugs at it any harder, but this might be the most uncomfortable situation he’s ever been in, and he’s had to watch Warrington and Montague act like they don’t fancy one another for _years_. 

All of a sudden Wood is right in front of him, stretching up to retrieve his shirt from where it somehow ended up on the bedpost behind Marcus's head, and Marcus looks up before he can stop himself - the strong muscles is Wood's abdomen are stretched taut with the movement, and Marcus feels his mouth go dry.

Wood's gaze snaps to his and Marcus hurriedly drops his eyes, biting his lip in mortification when he feels a flush rise in his cheeks. He can feel the weight of Wood's gaze on him for one long, tense moment until Wood moves off to retrieve his jumper from where it's entangled on the floor with Marcus's trousers, cloak, and socks, and Marcus lets out a silent sigh of relief. 

"So, I'll just be going then," Wood tells him a few moments later, with what might be a hint of hesitation in his tone. Marcus nods once, slightly, before he realizes that now it must look like he can't even make eye contact with a fully clothed Oliver Wood, which is possibly the most humiliating aspect of this entire situation. So he forces himself to look up at Wood, who's standing in front of him holding his cloak, mouth downturned just slightly at the corners.

Wood who also, apparently, still looks stupidly handsome while nursing what's undoubtedly a rather pronounced hangover, and Marcus wants to smack himself for noticing, because - he can't be doing this. He's already been horribly careless, and he needs to stop this _now_ before he runs an even greater risk of ruining the career he's worked so hard for.

Then Wood runs a hand through his hair awkwardly, and Marcus's eyes are drawn helplessly to the way the muscles in Wood's arm flex with the motion before he locks eyes with Wood again, who's staring at him with an intensity that sends a shiver up his spine. Marcus sits up straighter, trying to pull himself together, and he catches the moment Wood's eyes drop to the way the sheets have slipped a little lower around his waist to expose the bruises - of what are undoubtedly Wood's fingerprints - he can feel etched on his hips. Marcus is hit with an unnerving sense of déjà vu as Wood bites his lip and he can't stop himself from looking at Wood's mouth again, and Marcus is dimly aware of how his breath is coming faster and that there's a frenetic sort of energy surging through his veins the same way it does before he's about to make a particularly risky Quidditch play.

Then he looks back up to meet Wood's gaze, which is dark with want and unmistakably, disarmingly, _fascinatingly_ intense and - 

"Goddammit," Marcus growls, reaching forward hurriedly for Wood, who immediately presses closer, tossing his cloak carelessly to the side so he can take Marcus's face in his hands and kiss him soundly. Marcus fists a hand in Wood's collar to tug him impatiently back into bed, and Wood smiles against his mouth before leaning back to hastily strip off his shirt again, and well - Marcus figures that once more won't really make a difference, anyway.

***

When Marcus wakes up the following Sunday, mercifully not as hungover but no less entangled with a softly snoring Oliver Wood, he really thinks he should be less surprised.


End file.
